The Bloody Baron
by Tansiana
Summary: Being a ghost, to put it simply, sucked. Or it was bloody hell, take your pick.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I live in the US, not Great Britain, and am not JK Rowling. Therefore, I don't own Harry Potter**

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Being a ghost, to put it simply, sucked. Or it was bloody hell, take your pick.

Until he'd died, he'd never considered becoming a ghost. Eternal life was great and all (unless you listened to the Wing, who insisted that eternity got very boring, very quickly, which was the only reason they were in England at all), but eternity as a ghost would be…well, hell.

Truthfully, the only reason he decided to at all was to go and give his friend a good kick up the arse before telling him that he wasn't at all to blame and he really needed to get out of the castle and into the sunlight before people started thinking he was a vampire (something that certainly would have damaged what little reputation the school had so far managed to build).

But the application took a lot longer than he thought it would, and by the time he completed the paperwork, his friends and coworkers had already passed on and the Wing had left. Consequently, there was neither a single friendly face within the castle, nor anyone who would believe he was who he said he was.

His appearance might have something to do with that. His death hadn't been slow and agonizingly drawn out, but it hadn't been instantaneous either, and it had left him rather a mess, and that didn't change when he became a ghost. Yet another thing to complain about…bloodstains were hard to get out of clothing in life; it was impossible to do so in death. You don't picture a legend worn out and covered in blood, after all.

He doesn't remember when, exactly, "Professor Slytherin"—however mockingly it was said—became "the Bloody Baron." He just knows it was before the other ghosts arrived, and probably originated with Peeves. Bloody poltergeist.

Really, it was no surprise that he sunk into doldrums. He couldn't argue with Godric anymore, or badger the women until even Helga lost her patience with him, or duel with the Wing; neither could he pursue his studies in magic in ghostly form. Before too long, he no longer noticed the passing of the years; Headmasters and classes came and went without making any impact on his stagnating brain. Not even his own descendants managed to penetrate the fog.

They probably would have followed his son's ideals at any rate. Bloody fool he was, to take Salazar's dislike of the Muggleborn students and turn it into hatred. Salazar had been glad when he'd left.

Not even the opening of the Chamber of Secrets affected him, other than that another ghost joined the gathering in the castle. He vaguely noticed her—a weeping, wailing girl, apparently named Myrtle, who took to haunting the second-floor girl's bathroom—but of the events that led to her death, he knew nothing, and he preferred it that way. Let him ponder over the past for eternity; he wanted no part of the present.

Things had remained the same for Salazar Slytherin for a thousand years; now, they were about to change.

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**This story grew out of a comment made by Nearly Headless Nick in Anne Walsh's Dangerverse; I can't remember which story or what the actual quote was, but Nick mentioned that the Bloody Baron was the oldest ghost in the castle and had actually died there. That made me wonder...what if the Bloody Baron is actually Salazar Slytherin...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the long wait...life got in the way. Plus I had to figure out exactly where this is going...**

**Third chapter should be up before too long; it won't take as long as this, promise!**

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"Remind me again…why are we doing this?"

The voice caught his attention, the first thing to truly penetrate the haze of his mind in centuries. It was familiar—incredibly so—but he couldn't place it immediately.

"Because we promised we would eventually."

Another voice, just as familiar as the first, but this one who could place. And having done so, he knew the owner of the first voice, knew who their companions must be, though they hadn't spoken yet.

He floated through the wall into the entrance hall. Hogwarts was normally deserted by all but a skeleton crew during the summer months, which made the group in front of him far more obvious then they would be normally. But then, Salazar reflected, these people had never done things normally, would consider doing so an insult.

There were twelve of them, six men and six women. At first glance, they were not remotely similar in their appearance; you could not even say that they were all human, for one of them was not. The only common factor was their age; they all appeared to be in their mid-twenties.

He smirked. Appeared to be indeed; he had no idea how old they really were. Far older than he was, at any rate. And while each of them was, on an individual basis, capable of being overlooked, it was impossible when they were all gathered together. You would have to be blind, deaf, and devoid of touch not to sense the power cascading off them in waves, and they were making some effort to dampen it down, he could tell. His serpents would be drawn to them like moths to a flame.

They were moving out of the entrance hall now, heading up the staircases towards the Headmaster's office. The portraits lining the walls leaned forward, gossiping, trying to get a glimpse of the new attraction. Salazar's smirk grew wider as he heard some of the wilder guesses as to their identity. He was, no doubt, the only one in the castle who knew who these people were.

The Wing. Hogwarts' financial backers, here to fulfill a promise made over a thousand years before, when the school first opened its doors.

They were also his clan, his family by oath.

"I think I was drunk when I made that promise."

Salazar's eyes were drawn to the pair lagging behind the rest at this sentence; this was the pair he'd heard earlier, the ones to bring his attention to the present for the first time since his death. Brother and sister in all but blood, Gilren and Tansiana could not be more different; light and dark, the pair of them, in looks as well as in personality. Walking contradictions, almost as close as twins.

"From anyone else, Gil, I might believe that, but I have known you for four thousand years, and I have never once seen you actually drunk."

He snorted at that; Gilren might never actually be drunk, would never feel the effects of alcohol, but he was certainly talented at pretending to be…and getting those around him drunk as well. No wonder he and Godric had gotten along so well.

He continued following them, listening to their familiar, pointless bickering. He didn't break in and reveal himself; there would be plenty of time in the next several years for them to realize that he'd come back after his death. For now, he'd just sit back—not literally—and enjoy these last few moments of relative sanity.

"Gilren, you are about this close to being blasted to the other end of the universe. Will you just shut up and keep your asinine complaints to yourself!"

Oh yes. Things would definitely be interesting now that the Wing had returned.

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**So...yeah. please review on your way out, give me some incentive to get the third chapter written...thanks**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, I know I promised I would have this out long ago; I'm sorry! It's longer than the others though, that's a plus, right?**

**I'm not going to make any promises on when the fourth chapter is coming out, because I'm really not sure. I'll try to get it out before long, but...well. Don't count on it.**

**Disclaimer at bottom.**

Six of the Wing enrolled at Hogwarts, their true identity hidden from all but the staff, who were rather nervous about their…students…for the first several months, until the novelty wore off. Salazar's ghostly presence was revealed to them at their Sorting Feast, though none considered revealing him. Once the last of the fog had dissipated from his mind, the ghost was rather ashamed of how little he had to tell, of how few memories he had of the past millennia, and he started avoiding his old comrades as much as possible. 

A thousand years brought with them a great deal of change. There were far more students roaming the corridors then there had been when he was alive; Salazar sat in on a couple of classes and found himself overwhelmed in all but the first- and second-year lessons. The realization of this fact sent him grumbling to the depths of the dungeons, his pride severely damaged, even as he applauded the progress the wizarding world had made, academically.

By far the most disturbing change revolved around the reputation of Slytherin house. Salazar had always been aware that, ambition being as fickle and hard to control as it was, it would be far easier for his students to fall into darkness, but he had always hoped…in vain, it now appeared. Those students who fell eclipsed those who were good, moral individuals, and painted his house dark, until those individuals sorted into Slytherin were shunned by the rest of the school, convinced by society that they _were_ dark, would always be dark, and so more and more of them fell…it was a self-perpetuating disaster, and one that continually frustrated him, for there was little he could do to change such things.

The Wing enrolled in 1971, he eventually figured out; it wasn't until early 1979 that he sought them out. By then, the six that had enrolled had graduated, and the other half showed no signs of following their footsteps, yet they lingered on, no doubt because of the Dark Lord he had heard about in the halls of Hogwarts. Wild rumors could only give so much information, though, and he needed more.

It took him awhile to remember where Tansiana's office was located, but once he had done so, he had no problems getting through the wards and into the room. He wondered about that; wasn't it a security issue?

Then he noticed she wasn't alone; a young man in black wizarding robes sat before her desk, waiting as Tansiana shuffled through the papers on her desk. Salazar took the chance to study him; he couldn't be more than a year or two out of Hogwarts, and after a moment, he recognized him as one of his snakes, Severus Snape. Well; at least _one_ of his had the good sense recognize power, or else he wouldn't be sitting in this office, would he?

A quiet exclamation of triumph brought his attention back to Tansiana, who'd finally found what she was looking for, toppling over a stack of parchment as she did so. She closed her eyes momentarily and swept them to the corner of the desk, out of her way, and reached over for her quill. She looked up, no doubt to instruct Snape to begin his report, and caught sight of the ghost hovering at the door.

"How the hell did you get through my wards?"

Snape spun in his chair, wand already raised; Salazar ignored him, shaking his head slightly and tsking. "Such uncouth behaviour, my lady; whatever happened to 'hello, Salazar, how have you been'?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hello, Salazar, how have you been? And more importantly, what are you doing here?"

"I'm quite well, thank you for asking. And yourself?"

"Salazar Slytherin…" she growled, beginning to lose her temper. It was a warning, he knew, and one he'd never failed to heed, not after Godric ended up in the hospital wing for three weeks with a persistent rash from head to toe. No one was _quite_ sure how she'd managed that one, including, he suspected, Tansiana herself, but it was enough to ensure that no one ever tried her patience too far. Even if he was now a ghost, and as such immune to such punishment…well. Old habits die hard. 

"To be quite honest, Tansiana, I do not know. My best guess would be that you failed to take the…unliving into account when crafting your wards. And as for your second question…here as in your office, or here as in Hogwarts?"

"Both. Either."

"I believe we'd all like an answer to that question," Snape broke in, ignoring Tansiana's glare. Salazar had to hand it to him, the young man had nearly perfect control over his emotions. He was a tad bit tense, but now that he'd lowered his wand, there was no sign that he was at all discomforted by the unusual events. The ghost watched in bemusement as he turned to face Tansiana; a few moments of staring and Tansiana sank down into her chair, sighing in exasperation.

"Very well. Sal, this is Severus Snape, Hogwarts' alumni of 1978, Slytherin House. Also one of my newest recruits. Severus, this is Salazar Slytherin, and as I'm sure you figured out, I have no idea why or how he is here…or why he hasn't revealed himself before now." She certainly was doing a lot of glaring and staring today.

"I…had some information that I deemed necessary to give to Godric before he died," Salazar said, sitting down next to Snape; he was going to be here for a while, and he would rather be at Tansiana's eye level. "The paperwork took rather longer than I suspected, and it turns out that he had already passed on by the time I returned. There were…some conditions to my stay that have not yet been fulfilled, and therefore I have not yet been able to join him, Helga, and Rowena."

Tansiana nodded slowly, taking in the information, then grinned. "Neglected to read the fine print, did you?" At his nod, she laughed out right. "Oh, I am going to have fun with this."

"Please, Tansiana, not now." He raised his hand to rub a ghostly temple, and sighed. "I am here in your office because you would be the most likely person to have the information I need."

"In my experience, those words never mean anything good," Tansiana muttered, all mirth gone. "Carry on, please."

"There have been rumors floating around these halls for the past decade or so, Clan-sister," he began, leaning forward. "Of course, one must take rumor with a grain of salt, and normally I would not pay heed to such things…but I believe that these rumors are the reason you and the Wing have not already left." Her face had settled into an emotionless mask, and only a short incline of her head indicated that she was listening. "I need to know everything you have on this Dark Lord Voldemort."

She closed her eyes and sighed, laying down the quill she had been toying with since he began speaking. "I was afraid of that. You're not going to like this, te'sorthene."

He raised his eyes at the unfamiliar word; she waved a hand in dismissal. "Sorry; evidence of my recent world-hopping. Shin'a'in for a very close friend, a friend of the heart or spirit." He nodded, warmed at the implied affection. "Anyways…you asked about Voldemort. Severus," she looked over at the young man, "you want to begin?"

He nodded, leaning back in the chair, twirling his wand idly between his fingers. "The Dark Lord first appeared about a decade ago—openly, that is," he began, keeping his gaze fixed on the ghost. "He has since amassed a large collection of followers, mainly pureblood, mainly Slytherin, and is imposing a reign of terror on the Wizarding World. Those who oppose him are killed, the site of the deaths marked with his personal sign, with which he also marks his followers."

Salazar nodded. "His aims?" The news about the mark was interesting, and he made a mental note to ask about it later, but it was more important to know what Voldemort planned to do.

"He claims to be carrying on _your _goal of cleansing the world of Muggle influence," Severus said, sneering. Salazar recoiled at the words, automatically turning to Tansiana for confirmation. She nodded.

"I said you wouldn't like it, Sal. Your son's name has been lost to history, but _his _deeds have been ascribed to you. We—the Wing—are doing what we can, but there's only so much that twelve people can do against the beliefs of generations. There aren't many who are inclined to hear us, especially not with Voldemort using your supposed reputation as a 'Dark' Wizard as his rallying cry."

"It does not hurt that he is a Parselmouth and your descendent."

"My…" Salazar found himself at a loss for words. _This_ certainly wasn't what he'd expected when he entered this office!

"Your descendent, yes, on his mother's side. His given name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. His mother, Merope Gaunt, used a love potion to make his father fall in love with her, and he abandoned her and their unborn child when she told him what she was. Merope lived just long enough to name her son." Tansiana's lips twitched into a grim half-smile. "I find it ironic that he has pledged to rid the Wizarding World of all those with 'impure' blood…and yet he is a half blood himself; Tom Riddle, Sr. was a Muggle. Hypocrite."

"He has done a through job of hiding his ancestry," Snape noted. "And no one is likely to argue with him, not when it means their death."

"Even his schoolmates wouldn't recognize him now, at any rate," Tansiana said. "I'm rather surprised Albus did…but then Albus was suspicious of him even before he was sorted. Headmaster Dumbledore was Riddle's Transfiguration teacher," she clarified for Salazar, who had a quizzical look on his face. "He delivered his Hogwarts letter."

Salazar nodded and fell silent, letting everything sort itself out in his brain; Snape took the chance to make his report to Tansiana, a report Salazar ignored. "You said he marks his followers?" he asked at last, just as Snape finished. 

He lifted his sleeve in answer. There, outlined in black, was the stark shape of a skull wrapped with a snake. Salazar was not, exactly, surprised that Snape was marked—Tansiana had, after all, introduced him as her spy—but he hadn't been ready for such a tacit revelation. Snape smirked as his reaction.

"It serves as more than just identification, of course. He calls us through it; we know that when it burns, we are to go immediately to his side. There is more to it, I'm sure, but nothing he has seen fit to show us."

"I can imagine," Salazar said. Who knew what spells a Dark Lord could or would place into such a mark? Obviously there were no spells to insure loyalty, or he would not be sitting in this office right now (Tansiana was rather particular over who was allowed access to the room), but spells to drain one's power, spells to deal out pain and even death to a perceived traitor…

He turned to Tansiana. "What is being done to oppose him, and is there anything I can do to help?"

She grinned. "Got a couple of hours?"

**I do not, of course, own the world of Harry Potter. Neither do I own the briefly mentioned Shin'a'in; they belong to Mercedes Lackey.**

**Please review, if only to yell at me for taking so long...**


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